


They'll Only Miss You When You Leave

by spirograph



Category: South Park
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-03-27
Updated: 2007-03-27
Packaged: 2017-10-31 11:52:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,039
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/343739
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spirograph/pseuds/spirograph
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sequel to <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/works/343738">The Desperate Things (You Made Me Do)</a> (OT4)</p>
            </blockquote>





	They'll Only Miss You When You Leave

The way that things turn out are, pretty much, exactly how Kyle had predicted. They avoid each other for a full week after they get back. The only thing that Kyle can think about is the all-consuming silence during the long drive home, the brief periods of Stan’s rambling over-compensation for the huge, bright neon elephant sitting in the middle of the car. Cartman had spent a lot of time pouring over Kenny’s porno. Now, the soft swish of turning pages is like a paper cut of sound that slices across Kyle’s memory. 

Kenny had seemed the least uncomfortable, grinning back at Kyle whenever he looked into the review mirror for too long. They’d always had a running joke that Kenny would fuck anyone as long as they gave him consent –Kyle doesn’t know if that gag is still funny, or not. 

When Stan finally shows up at his house it’s not to have _the talk_ like he expects. It’s so Stan can tell him which college he’s decided to go to, which state has caught his eye. 

“It scares the shit out of me,” he says, sitting on the other side of the room from Kyle - nowhere near the bed - words traveling heavily across the sizable void between them. Kyle had made his decision as soon as he got back –picking the university that put the most distance between himself and South Park; just like he’d planned. He sort of regrets it now, though, by the way Stan tenses up, hunches his shoulders and whispers, “It’s gonna be weird without you, dude.” 

Suddenly it’s not awkward anymore, it’s just sad. And Kyle can’t help but feel like he’s being completely and utterly cheated out of his happiness. They don’t talk about Vegas. Don’t discuss the sighs and the moans, or the way that Stan had come all over Kyle’s hand after daybreak, shuddering against him and gasping for the longest time. It’s just another secret to add to the already enormous mountain of other secrets they have to keep. To be honest, Kyle would really like to forget that it ever happened. 

He won’t ever tell Stan that he finds it hard to sleep, replaying that night over and over in his head –stomach clenching with regret as he remembers, chest tightening with want. Maybe he’d wanted it too much. Perhaps his hands had clutched too tightly and his moaning was too loud. It’s possible that he enjoyed it more than he should have. He wonders if Kenny and Stan have talked about it, have talked about _him._

Weeks pass and Cartman is unsurprisingly vacant from their (infrequent) get-togethers. Kyle calls his house on a Thursday afternoon and Liane answers the phone. She hesitates, and Kyle knows for sure that Cartman’s in the room with her, telling her to make an excuse. She settles on “Sorry dear, he’s in the shower. I’ll make sure he calls you back.” But he doesn’t, and Kyle never really expected that he would. It’s hard to deny something so huge and it’s already eating Kyle up inside. He supposes Cartman probably feels the same way. 

Bebe has another party at the end of the summer and Cartman doesn’t bother to show up. Stan disappears early on, Wendy hanging off the end of his arm. Kenny gets so drunk he vomits all over the front lawn. When he falls back onto his ass there are dark patches on his knees from the moist ground. “What the fuck am I going to do without you guys?” he murmurs, breath stinking and his clothes covered with alcohol stains. He picks despondently at the grass, sniffling slightly and trying not to meet Kyle’s eyes. 

Until that moment Kyle has dealt with leaving pretty well, but then Kenny’s wiping the cuff of his sleeve under his nose and saying god _damnit_ , like it’s breaking his fucking heart. And maybe it is, because beneath the recent cloud of awkwardness is their friendship, which is more solid that anything else Kyle has ever been a part of. He wants to say it’s okay, you know, Kenny will be busy with his job all year and the following summer they’ll all leave for university together. But he says nothing, because a year is a really long time to be alone. To be stuck in South Park without your friends. 

He walks Kenny home, helps him undo the zillion knots he’s tied into the strings of his hoodie. He doesn’t expect it when Kenny grabs onto his shoulders and pulls him into a hug. Kyle melts into the embrace; feels his muscles relax completely for the first time in weeks. Kenny whispers, “Do you have to go?” 

The walls seem to quiver, almost as if they’re sucking Kenny’s words into their old, wooden supports. In the following silence Kyle almost decides to stay, imagines peeling away his clothes like a second skin and crawling into Kenny’s bed until dawn. 

“I have to wake up really early,” he says, instead. Kenny nods, kicking off his shoes and sliding under his comforter fully clothed. He pulls the sheet right up under his chin and it reminds Kyle of when they were kids. Back when Kenny was afraid of the dark and they’d stay awake for hours hidden under those same sheets - eyes wide and locked on each other as they listened for the sound of skeletal knuckles knocking at the door, as they waited for Death.

Kenny doesn’t say goodbye and the door hardly makes a sound when it shuts. It’s only once he’s outside, surrounded by skin-numbing cold, that Kyle wonders if it’s possible to die from loneliness alone.

Cartman’s sitting on Kyle’s front step when he finally makes it home. Blending into the shadows and staring at his shoes. It takes a minute for Kyle to figure out who it is, widening his eyes to try and focus through the darkness and slight haze of drunkenness.

“You took your fucking time,” Cartman says, voice hushed, shrugging his shoulders and pulling his jacket tighter around his body, as if to emphasize the chilly temperature of the night air.

“I was at the party,” Kyle mutters, digging around in his jeans for the front door key, stumbling slightly when the garden path tilts sideways. 

Cartman doesn’t say ‘we need to talk’ or ‘I’ve got something to tell you.’ He stands up and folds his arms, says, “Goddamnit, Kyle, hurry up. It’s cold.”

Indoors the house smells like baking and Cartman swears softly when Kyle almost trips on the hallway stairs, huffing out an agitated breath when Kyle has trouble finding the handle of his bedroom door. “Fucking Christ,” he complains, pulling Kyle out of the way and opening the door himself, roughly pushing him inside a moment later.

“I’m pretty wasted,” Kyle muses aloud, feeling ridiculously heavy and unbalanced as he sits down on the bed. Shutting one eye and surveying the scene as Cartman shuts the door as quietly as possible. It seems entirely appropriate to wonder, “Why are you here?” 

Cartman looks up at the ceiling, then down at the floor. Kyle feels a little bit dizzy. “Ugh,” Cartman says, sounding aggrivated. He walks forward. Kyle stands up. “Kyle, sit down.” 

There’s a gap between the curtains. Kyle suddenly feels compelled to fix that. “What? No.” 

“God,” Cartman whines. “You are such a fucking _Jew_.” 

And Kyle would probably be mad at him for saying that, if not for the voice inside his head telling him there’s something big happening in front of him, something pretty important. Then Cartman’s moving forward again, encroaching on Kyle’s personal space so much that when he twists away the back of his knees hit the edge of the bed. Lightly, Cartman pushes at the center of his chest. 

Kyle gulps in a lungful of air, feeling suddenly like he shouldn’t have had that last shot of tequila (that shit sneaks up on you.) and he jerks away as Cartman reaches down, open palm mere inches away from his face. It’s habit, mostly. He’s been slapped enough times to be prepared. Then Cartman’s running his thumb over the curve of Kyle’s cheek, beneath his eye, hand burning hot against Kyle’s skin. He tries again to move away.

“Fuck,” Cartman huffs, “Let me. Just. Please, let me do this.” 

Kyle’s heart starts pounding against his ribs, so brutal that it shakes his whole body. This close he can see the folds of Cartman’s jeans in intimate detail, and when he looks upward Cartman’s staring down with dark, narrowed eyes. And he isn’t ugly. Kyle’s never thought of him like that. He’s just kind-of overweight and really sadistically _mean._ Which is probably why it’s not entirely surprising when he leans forward and sneers against Kyle’s lips, “for the record, I still fucking hate you,” before kissing him full on the mouth. 

“That’s-,” Not very nice, Kyle tries to say around Cartman’s tongue. Which is lame, because when the hell has Cartman ever done anything _nice?_

“Lie back,” Cartman mumbles, nudging forcefully at Kyle’s shoulders. Fingers working at the fastening of Kyle’s pants before any kind of protest can formulate in his mind. The bed wobbles, and Cartman practically rips the clothes from Kyle’s body. Urgently pulling at the fabric and tossing it onto the ground. It all feels very familiar, pressure of hands on his hips to hold him down, teeth sinking into the flesh near his collarbone. Kyle inhales sharply; Cartman’s hair smells like popcorn.

Kyle manages –after a lot of grumbling and slapping away of hands –to encourage Cartman to shuck his clothes. The room overheats quickly and Kyle’s gaze follows a transparent bead of sweat as it descends along the flushed expanse of Cartman’s temple. 

They’re skin against skin, and where they touch it feels like Kyle is on fire. Cartman’s body is soft, now lying beside him, pressed against him. Licking his lips, grinding uselessly against Kyle’s thigh and saying, “You look _so fucking-_ ” 

Cut short by his own moan as Kyle reaches down and loosely wraps a hand around his dick. Cartman arches toward him, gasping, enfolding his arms around Kyle’s smaller frame and pulling him closer. They kiss, and the way their cocks rub together makes Kyle feel lightheaded –this is different. This isn’t a fumbled hand on his dick or a sloppy blowjob. It’s honest-to-god friction that sends jolts of pleasure up his spine. There’s not much else that he can do but go with it, draping one long leg over the top of Cartman’s thigh and awkwardly burying his face against the heat of his arm. He closes his eyes against the harsh bedroom light, against Cartman’s eyes watching him lose control. The other boy rocks his hips, sliding impossibly close -letting out hard, stuttering breaths against the mess of Kyle’s hair, fingers digging into his ass. 

Cartman’s breath hitches, then, and he tries to pull away. He braces himself, palm flat against Kyle’s chest and pushes him onto his back. The bed is hardly big enough for both of them to sprawl out very far, so when Cartman shuffles slightly again they’re almost nose to nose. But he doesn’t try and pull Kyle forward, instead letting his fingers trail a path lightly over his stomach, down over his thigh. Cartman’s fingers flex and he hesitates, like he’s all of a sudden realized where his hands are, tentatively stretching his fingertips out to brush against Kyle’s balls. Kyle wants to laugh. He wants to know when the whole world flipped upside down and made Eric Cartman want to touch him like this. 

Cartman’s voice is like liquid. Loud words spoken hotly against the shell of Kyle’s ear. “I want to,” he says, pausing. “I want.” But he doesn’t seem to be able find the language to finish. 

Kyle clears his throat, “Bedside drawer.” He can feel a blush creeping up over the blush already present on his cheeks. Cartman twists away. The sound of objects rattling, of wood sliding against plastic, echoes around the room. Kyle blinks up at his ceiling, squinting at the tiny outlines of ancient glow in the dark stars that ran out of juice years and years ago. 

With his fingers wet, Cartman leans up on his elbow and nudges Kyle’s legs further apart with the back of his hand. Time goes a little still, which Kyle’s decides may or may not be because he’s holding his breath. Then Cartman’s right there, beside him, whispering _Relax, relax_ , and Kyle has a blinding moment of panic because this is _Cartman_ , the worst friend he’s ever had. The biggest douchebag he has _ever known._ Pressing a finger against his ass and mouthing the skin of his neck, very nearly choking on the moans that keep bubbling at the back of his throat. Kyle exhales, finally, and Cartman’s finger pushes inside him. It’s the most uncomfortably amazing thing he’s ever felt and;

“Holy shit,” Cartman hisses, maybe because Kyle’s tight, perhaps because he just _takes it._

(Kyle’s tried doing this to himself before and it felt good – eventually -but not like this. Like he’s so full he’s going to-)

“God, _more_ ,” he hears himself say, punctuated with a whimper that doesn’t even get past his lips, it just flounders in his throat. And Cartman groans, resting his forehead against the rising and falling curve of Kyle’s chest, sliding his finger out, pushing it in again, and again, and again, adding another digit soon after. Kyle arches clumsily toward Cartman’s hand and wonders why his skin is so flushed. Why he has a look on his face like he’s torn between needing to collapse and maybe wanting to strangle Kyle to death. 

Then Kyle realizes what he must look like: legs spread as he fucks himself on the other boy’s fingers. Cartman messily bites and licks at Kyle’s mouth, pushes his fingers _deeper._ Arm snaking up and around the back of Cartman’s neck, Kyle tangles his hands firmly in his hair, can’t stop himself from gasping, open mouthed as his head falls back against the covers. His other hand he lets drift down to his cock, arching up at the heated touch of his own fingers fisting around it. Soles of his feet flat against the mattress, Kyle curls his toes and wishes he could make it last longer. But the warmth of orgasm is already unfurling at the base of his spine, weaving out in all directions, making him feel as if he’s burning from the inside. Climax washes over him and Kyle can hardly breathe, trying hard not to make too much noise. Cartman swears, sounding surprised as Kyle’s muscles clamp down around him. Kyle’s heartbeat is like a jackhammer in his ears, beneath which he can only just make out Cartman’s words, a broken sentence, _the hottest thing I’ve ever seen._

His body thrumming, still pulsing with aftershocks, Kyle turns sideways and slides his leg between Cartman’s. He curves his back like a bowstring and presses his nose against Cartman’s cheek, pants against his mouth. “You can fuck me, if you want.” 

Cartman shivers, closes his eyes, and he hardly makes a sound. Just sighs and bucks forwards against Kyle’s thigh ever-so-slightly. Then they’re kissing again and Cartman’s lube-coated hand is clutching at Kyle’s arm, hips jerking as he rides it out, come spilling hot over Kyle’s skin. Kyle wonders momentarily if this is why Cartman has been avoiding him, if he’s been cooped up inside his bedroom the whole summer imagining this, the way that Kyle would feel beneath him. 

And when Cartman meets his gaze he looks horrified, fingers loosening and releasing their grip on Kyle’s bicep. Kyle feels extremely exposed, and it’s suddenly cold, the heat of Cartman’s body gone as he moves to gather up his clothes. 

Kyle turns his head away when Cartman snatches up his tee by mistake and throws it at him. “You’re just going to leave?”

Cartman laughs, bitterly. “Do you want me to stay and snuggle?” he jibes, pulling his own rumpled shirt over his head. He's freaking out. 

Kyle doesn’t feel used -he wouldn’t expect anything other than blatant usury from Cartman –but he is angry. Everything is happening too fast. They’re supposed to be friends. Or something. “Fuck you.” He stares down at the crumpled fabric in his lap. “Are you-“

“I’m not gay,” the other boy interjects, hastily pulling his belt through the loops of his jeans.

Kyle snorts, “I was going to say, are you going to tell anyone. But denial works, too” 

Cartman doesn’t say anything more. He pulls on his jacket and shuffles around to try and find an AWOL shoe. He hesitates at the door, fingers wrapped around the handle. “Enjoy your life, or whatever.” Then he’s gone, dull echo of footsteps retreating down the hall. 

Outside a bird starts chirping –its closer to dawn that Kyle had thought. In a few hours he’ll be at the airport, getting ready to board a plane that will take him far, far away from home. He’s exhausted, he’s in shock, and there’s no way he’ll sleep now. He can feel the tingling of lube drying on his skin. 

Butterflies in his stomach, Kyle pulls on his clothes. His suitcase is overflowing with crap but he still tries to pack more inside it. On the desk there’s a photograph of his friends, chap-lipped and wind-blown but happy. He can’t remember that day, but he remembers the feeling; warmth of joy bubbling inside him, strong contrast against the freezing air whipping against his face. It’s a million miles away from how he currently feels. He reaches out to grab the frame and buries deep under layers of clothing. 

After that there’s not much else to do but sit. Legs crossed on the floor of his weirdly uncluttered room, Kyle anticipates the rising of the sun, the light shining in through the curtains. Longing to be rid of the cramping feeling inside his stomach –a mixture of tiredness and hunger and nerves –he lolls his head back against the edge of his bed.

Breathing as calmly as he can, Kyle stares at the ceiling and waits.


End file.
